Millionaire Slumdog
by FearandLoathingXIX
Summary: Money doesn't buy you happiness, but it does pay muscular townies to pull weeds in your yard for you. Gord/Duncan pairing written for Hija-jiyangi, cross-post from tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

This comprises the 1st and 2nd chapter of a fic I'm posting on tumblr for the miss Hija-jiyangi who adores this pairing and finally convinced me to write it :P Warnings for slash and recreational drug use.

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_Millionaire Slumdog_

A Bully fanfiction

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"Jimmy, I need something." Gord had a way of phrasing things that didn't make them questions. They weren't even really demands, they were just statements that he needed something and chances are he was going to get it. He'd invited himself into Jimmy's room all the way from Old Bullworth Vale to make this announcement, which meant he was probably more serious about it than his latest impulse buy he couldn't be bothered to carry home after a long day shopping. School was out for the Summer, and Jimmy had opted to stay in his room in the Bullworth dorm, given that it was somewhat difficult to get out to cruise ship in the middle of the ocean.

"What?" Jimmy snapped, hovering over his chemistry set with a tongue jutted out between his lips. It was quieter than usual, but most of the kids were from the local area so it wasn't all ghost towns and tumbleweed.

"Father says the yard is overgrown and needs weeding, or trimming, or... something," he sighed. "He says that if we're to entertain on it then it has to be mown and that is _manual _labour."

"So what you're saying is you don't wanna do your chores," Jimmy summarised. "Welcome to bein' a kid."

"Father told me to do it, and that means I am delegating like a good executive," he explained snootily. "Jimmy, I will pay you to garden my yard."

"Sorry, man," Jimmy answered. "I've got better stuff to do than rip turf outta your lawn."

"But," now he sounded petulant. Jimmy was still working intently over the chemistry set, and it was only the impatient tapping of an expensive shoe on his floor that finally got him to turn around.

"What?" he posed bluntly.

"Jimmy, why can't _you_ do it?" he whined, and Jimmy suspected Gord had further reasons for wanting him to be committing hard labour in the summer heat out the back of Gord's house. He'd seen the binoculars. "I'll pay you."

"I know, Gord, but I have other stuff to do that pays better and don't involve me pulling weeds," he insisted. "I'd help you, but, see, I don't wanna."

"_Jimmy,_" Gord berated.

"Get someone else to do it," he dismissed.

"But I don't know anyone else who does peasant work," retorted Gord, then judging Jimmy's look of disapproval he backed up a little. "I mean..."

"Forget it, Gord," he interjected wearily. It wasn't worth trying to grind the money out of his blood. "Will you get off my case if I find someone who'll do your yard for you?"

"Hm, I suppose so," he acquiesced, though clearly wasn't happy about the idea of getting a substitute. "As long as they're not..."

"Ugly?" Jimmy suggested wryly.

"Untrustworthy," he supplied. "Father will not be pleased if someone _undesirable _shows up at the gates saying that I invited him here."

"Anyone who'll agree to weed your yard for ten bucks an hour is going to be 'undesirable'," Jimmy explained rudely. "So you can take it or leave it. Or," he added cheekily, "you could always do it yourself."

"That's not funny, James," Gord replied tartly. "He'll have to be there tomorrow afternoon at three." As if being difficult was his petty revenge for Jimmy denying him.

"Sure," Jimmy grunted.

"I'm counting on you," he pressured. "If I say someone is coming and then no one shows up father will-"

"Yeah, I got it," Jimmy muttered. "Chill out, man. I'll get someone." Then he turned back to his chemistry set and resumed the firecracker mix. Gord, sensing he wasn't getting any more of Jimmy's time, turned and strutted back out of the door.

"So you're saying I gotta mow his lawn?" Duncan surmised as he stuffed the bowl. Summer was being good to them, so they were kicking back on the bonnet of a burned-out car round Blue Skies trailer park.

"Basically," Jimmy answered. "I thought I'd ask you first, cause I figure you can use the cash as much as anyone, and, well..." he trailed off thoughtfully as Duncan got a lighter and took the first hit, passing the bong to Jimmy afterwards.

"And what?" Duncan asked after he exhaled, giving a tell-tale wheeze and leaning back against the car. "He nutso or something."

"No, nothing like that," Jimmy said. "He's just... uhhh." He paused to take another hit, puffing his cheeks out and wincing in the sun as he held the smoke. With a woosh he exhaled and wisps blew away in the fresh air, then he handed it back across. "Basically, he might hit on you." Duncan was mid-inhale and so he coughed his way out of the hit and spluttered roughly, almost spilling it.

"What?" he gasped. "You mean, he likes to beat down on poor people?"

"No, I mean he might come onto you," Jimmy clarified. It wasn't really Gord's nature to get violent with anyone when he could get intimate. He wasn't a fighter, but made a half-decent lover.

"You're kiddin," Duncan insisted, re-packing the bowl.

"I'm dead serious, man," he argued. "I'm just telling you in case he does. I figured you wouldn't flip out if he got a little, uh, whatever." The other guys from Blue Skies would be more likely to turn someone inside out for giving them a sleazy look. At least he knew Duncan wasn't going to go all gay-shock on anyone.

"So you're telling me one of those stuck up preppies from the Vale might try and _chat me up_ while I'm doing his yard?" Duncan finishing packing and took a long hit.

"What can I say, he's into that slumdog millionaire thing or something," Jimmy remarked. "He ain't a bad guy, just a little stuck up. An' he gets off on thinking he's slumming it and making daddy mad or whatever. Hand that over," he demanded, reaching out for the bong. Duncan let out a puff and looked up at the clear skies.

"But he's paying, right?" he remarked.

"For what?" Jimmy replied. "He ain't gonna pay you to suck his-"

"No, I meant for the yard," Duncan interjected hastily. "He'll pay me for the work?"

"Sure. If he tried to cheat you I'd beat it out of him on your account," Jimmy assured him. He glanced down at his watch, furrowing his brows as he slowly tried to work out what time it was. "Oh, but, he said you gotta be there... today," he mumbled vaguely.

"Whaaat?" Duncan protested. "You tell me that _now_, Jim?"

"Naw, chill out," Jimmy soothed. "It aint' for an hour or two. Three pm he said. We got time."

"All right, Jimmy," Duncan agreed. "I'll do it." He pulled out their baggy and pinched a new bud. "Now hand me that back, we gotta smoke this all before I go."

"Anything you say, man," Jimmy obliged. "Remember, three o clock."

"I'll remember," Duncan replied vacantly, busy cleaning out the bowl and stuffing it anew. "Don't sweat it."

At three forty-five Duncan wandered up to a set of gates that corresponded with the squiggly numbers Jimmy had written on his hand in magic marker. He stood staring at them for a while, then put a hand to the wrought-iron bars. Pressing his face between them, he stared at the two-storey house with a colonial façade and marvelled at how flamboyant it was. Underneath the house was probably the same as all the other ones, but they dressed this one up pretty and thought it was better than the others. Just like the people who lived in it.

In rapt contemplation of this irony of life, he didn't notice the boy strutting out of the front door until he was almost at the gates.

"-and get out of here I don't want any drugs this is a clean household thank you."

Duncan squeezed his eyebrows together and tried to process the words.

"I ain't got any left," he answered. "And I wouldn't sell to you anyway, jackass." He focused on the boy and vaguely linked it to memories he'd mostly forgotten now. A preppy kid along with all the others, who paid him no mind and didn't care who was bullying who as long as it wasn't them. "Are you Gord?"

"I wouldn't want... sorry, what?" Gord fussed. "How would you know-"

"Jimmy sent me," he explained groggily, and then stuck his hand through the bars. Gord jumped back like he was holding out a knife. "Is this your house?" he asked, waving his palm with a lop-sided number and streetname scrawled on it.

"Uh, allow me to." Gord twisted his head and examined the inscription. "Well yes, that is my address. Jimmy sent you?"

"He said you needed your... yard... trimmed," Duncan mumbled, struggling to remember what to say. "He said you were paying."

"Well yes, that is... he sent _you_?" he remarked distastefully. "You're sure Jimmy sent you _here_?"

"He figured I wouldn't mind," Duncan answered vaguely. "I'm used to doin' shitty jobs, an if you-"

"You don't have any _substances _on you, do you?" Gord demanded before Duncan could go on. He peered at his face through the bars, like one of them was a monkey in an exhibit.

"Not any more," Duncan answered jollily. "Do you want this work done or not?" Gord's mouth twisted into a grimace, and he looked Duncan up and down. He looked like he was considering the fate of a stray dog to come begging at his door.

"Oh fine," he huffed. "Father will be upset if it doesn't start getting done today. In you come." The gate screeched back as if it barely let anyone in, and Duncan wandered through.

"Your house has fancy clothes," he announced prophetically.

"What?" Gord hissed. "Oh forget it. Follow me, and don't touch anything."

"Why?" He looked at a pot plant and edged away. "Is it _poisoned?" _No paranoia, he told himself sternly, quelling the worries. He was _not_ going to freak out.

"What? No," Gord huffed. "I meant that... oh never mind."

"Easy, rich boy," Duncan murmured, and Gord stopped and shot him a vicious look.

"_What _did you call me?"

"Nuffin," Duncan responded slobbishly, and trailed after Gord as he led him around the house and out to a shed.

"The tools are in there, and everything you take from here has to go _back _here at the end of the day," Gord explained snobbishly. "You need to mow the lawn, trim the borders, dig the flowerbeds and weed them."

"Weed then?" Duncan picked up cheerfully. .

"You have to weed the _yard_," Gord insisted crossly. "I asked Jimmy to send me someone... oh, never mind. If you do good work, you'll be paid for it. You can work for as long as you like." He was about to walk away but stopped and turned back. "If you need anything to drink, I'll put out a jug of water, up there," he said, pointing at a garden set that was grown around with grass after a long winter of not being tended.

"Okay," Duncan said, feeling very thirsty all of a sudden. His mouth was way too dry for it to be normal.

"I suppose I'll leave you to it," he resigned, seeming half-convinced that he was single handedly assuring the destruction of his yard by entrusting it to this red-eyed youth.

Destruction might have been too strong a word for it, because when he went back out an hour later, he was a little concerned that nothing outside looked any different to when Jimmy's guy had supposedly 'started'. Although the shed was open and some of the tools had been moved, the boy himself was nowhere to be found. Gord suspected that he'd gotten bored and left, until he heard some snoring from one of the overgrown shrubberies. Peering inside, silently fuming that he was having to tread around in the dirt for this, he found his so-called worker sleeping on a patch of overgrown grass under a canopy of leaves.

"Ah-_hem!_" Gord coughed, and had to repeat the call once more before the slob actually stirred.

"Oh," he murmured groggily, stretching his face and clenching one eye shut as he yawned loudly. "What time is it?"

"It's almost five o clock," Gord remarked aloofly. "You've been hard at work, I see."

"I guess I took a nap," he remarked, rubbing his face and stretching. "I... I came here earlier, right? I'm... I'm meant to be doing something to your yard..."

"Yes," Gord retorted condescendingly. "You're _meant _to be gardening it. Have you fried your memory or something?"

"I thought maybe it was a dream," he answered weakly. "Wouldn't be the first time I've woken up in someone's yard for no good reason." He struggled up to his feet and pulled a trowel out from under his jeans. "Oh," he remarked, looking at it. "That makes sense. Wondered why I was dreaming about being stabbed in the back."

"A dream that might come true if you don't get to work," Gord snipped. "You're not being paid for the hours you were napping."

"Fine," Duncan retorted sourly. "No need to get in my face about it. I'll start now."

"I am just trying to motivate you," Gord commented. "Clearly you need it."

"Money's the only motivation I need, allright?" he shot. "If you wanna stand around wasting more time be my guest, but I've _clearly _got stuff to do." He stuffed the trowel into his pocket and shoved his way out of the bush, flexing his shoulders in the sinking afternoon light. In the midst of summer it would still be light for a good few hours, though his shadow was growing longer across the lawn. He picked up a shovel and headed over to a flower bed, then started to cut the turf with sharp stamping motions. Gord watched for a few minutes, and then went back into the house.

When his father came home at six-thirty in the evening the townie was still working out back, not having stopped since Gord left him over an hour ago.

"Is that the boy you hired to do the yard?" Mr. Vendome inquired, peering out of the back at the figure half in white who was still trimming borders.

"Yes daddy," Gord answered, lounging back in one of the sitting room chairs. "I think he's from that estate, you know, the terrible one that Spencer Holdings owns half of." His father gave a puff of dismissal and looked a moment longer, then turned back to the room.

"As long as he does the work," his father maintained.

"I think it technically counts as social reconstruction, offering him a paid job like this," Gord remarked. "He's probably terribly grateful, although too proud to admit it." There was a romantic quality to it, the proud but impoverished ruffians.

"Hm," his father murmured, taking a seat and reaching for his reading glasses. He would change soon, never wanting to sit too long in one of his suits for fear of creasing it, but he liked to read over the news first. "What did you say his name was?" he queried absently as he thumbed through the paper.

"I... I don't know," Gord murmured. "I never thought to ask."

"Always know the names of your employees, son," his father advised. "A personal relationship with everyone underneath you is vital to success."

"Yes daddy," Gord agreed. "Absolutely. I'll find it out later." He still had to pay him anyway.

It was only when it was too dark to see that the nameless townie outside stopped working, just before nine when it wasn't quite so warm, and all he had was a ripped off t-shirt and his skin. Gord went out with a coat and forty dollars in his hand.

"You didn't have to stay so late," he announced, watching the tools being preciously replaced as they'd been found.

"I was making up for lost time, wasn't I?" he remarked icily, and Gord almost regretted his earlier snottiness. In the end he'd worked well and hadn't even taken a break, bar his afternoon nap. "What've you got for me?" he asked, turning and eyeing the cash in Gord's palm.

"Forty," he answered. "Ten an hour, minus the-"

"The one I spent sleeping, sure," he assumed. He reached out and took it from Gord. "There's still more to do, so I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"Morning? Are you sure?" Gord found himself asking. He preferred a long lie-in himself.

"Work is work," the boy answered with a shrug. "I ain't got anything better to do. I'll see ya tomorrow." He shut the shed door and started to walk out, when Gord slipped his hand back into his pocket and grabbed something.

"Wait," he called out, and extended a hand with another ten dollar bill folded in it. "Fifty," he announced like he was haggling the price down instead of up.

"You said I wouldn't be paid for-"

"It's a bonus," he rushed, just a touch awkward. "For staying late." With an indifferent look the townie reached out and took it, stuffing the wad into his jeans pocket and turning away. "One more thing!" Gord found himself bleating like a sheep. "You... didn't tell me your name," he fumbled.

"Duncan," he answered. Hands stuffed deep into jeans pockets, he was almost faceless in the dim light. Gord would be afraid of walking from here all the way to Blue Skies in the dark, but this was the kind of person he'd be scared of. He wondered who Duncan feared.

"Well, goodbye then," he forced, and Duncan was already walking away. He raised a hand up and waved without turning, a jaunty flick that seemed to summarise how much he didn't give a damn about.

"See ya," he echoed, leaving Gord alone in the dark.

* * *

As far as Gord Vendome was concerned, there wasn't a better way to start the day than rolling out of bed well after eleven and looking from his bedroom window to see a half-naked guy in his yard pushing a wheelbarrow. In fact, when it happened he suspected he was still dreaming. Blinking his eyes and deciding that no, he really was awake, he reached for the binoculars. One Christmas many years ago he'd expressed a brief interest in birds, and here they were. It was only recently that he'd found good use for them.

It was Duncan outside, which it obviously would be, but judging by the fact that he had his shirt stuffed into the back of his jeans and looked decidedly sweaty, he must have been out there for some time. Gord wondered what time he'd arrived. Furthermore, who had let him in? He hoped it was his mother. His dad might see a boy like Duncan up close and get to questioning. Mummy knew about... well, she didn't mind what he did while he was young, as long as he understood that marrying a nice, appropriate girl and raising a family was always going to be in his future.

Duncan looked up at the window and Gord quickly dropped the binoculars. He didn't want to be caught looking; not like _this_, anyway. He would make a proper entrance. Strolling into his wardrobe, he picked out some clothes for the day. With no classes to speak of, he only ever went back to Bullworth for various societies and meetings organised by Derby or some other so-and-so; he had to wear his uniform then, but out of school he dressed however he liked.

He didn't want to overdo it and seem like he'd put too much effort in, but nor was he going to look anything less than fantastic. He settled on a very expensive checker-print shirt with carefully half-rolled sleeves. Crafted with the greatest attention and care to look as casual as a hundred dollars' worth of shirt could look. For the pants he fell back on a good pair of beige slacks, and with a quick comb of his hair and a matching watch, he was ready to casually stroll out into the morning sun twirling a pair of three-hundred-dollar sunglasses around his finger.

"How long have _you _been here?" he announced suavely, popping the sunglasses on and realising that they dimmed the view. A view he was quite set on enjoying. Jimmy had been his favourite, but Duncan was at least at that standard, maybe even better. Not to mention the tattoo. It was delightfully common. He was pushing a wheelbarrow full of turf towards the back of the garden, but stopped as Gord passed by.

"Bout' nine," he answered slovenly, putting the wheelbarrow down and pulling his top from the back of his pants to mop his forehead, then trailing it down his chest and stuffing it back. Gord was glad for the sunglasses at that moment because Duncan couldn't see his eyes widening. That had to be deliberate, he thought to himself. Was the guy intending to flirt with him? "You can ask your mom," he added defensively. "If you-"

"I believe you," Gord interjected. So mother had let him in. That was good. He looked around the yard, which seemed more or less the same. "The yard looks better," he offered. "Keep up the good work."

"Yeah, well if you had someone to do this regularly instead'a all at once it wouldn't take so long," Duncan commented. "This is more like a week's work." Gord smiled and then forgot that he ought not be so obvious. A whole week – perfect.

"Do you need anything?" he suggested courteously; he was nothing if not a gracious host. "Something to drink, or-" an invitation into the house was a start. Dad was out until six or so, and mummy had lunch at the club most days. He usually went with her during vacations, but would excuse himself as soon as he went back inside.

"I'm fine, your mom brought me out some lemonade," he answered, and then excused. "I better get back to work." Then with a huff he started to shove the sod onwards. Gord pouted, then remembered that Duncan could still see him, and went back inside to eat some brunch and moan to his mother about being unappreciated. She was getting more and more tolerant of hearing his personal dramas. He usually conveniently left gender out of it, but he was starting not to bother.

"Why are men so oblivious, mummy?" he bemoaned while sliding in behind the breakfast bar.

"I don't know, darling," she answered politely, mixing a bowl of Italian salad to take to the club. He grabbed for breadsticks and crunched on them with discontentment. "Are you coming to the club?" she phrased like she already knew exactly what the answer was.

"No, I think I'll stay and keep an eye on _him_," he answered with a play at not being conceited. Not a great one, but an effort at least. "I wouldn't want daddy to think I'd let him be on the grounds unsupervised."

"No, I suppose not," she agreed, removing the large apron they kept for the preservation clothes during food preparation, and hung it on a peg. She popped a lid onto the salad and started packing it into a basket along with a bottle of champagne and strawberries. 'Lunch' was always a very feminine occasion, with bubbly and gossip and a lot of clucking, but Gord actually rather enjoyed it. There was a lot of fashion to talk about, which had him content in most situations. He was usually the only 'kid' there, although Pinky Gauthier sometimes showed up. They tended to treat one another differently outside school, where Derby wasn't looming over her and Jimmy wasn't in the way. He was a point of contention between them. Just because they both liked the romantic appeal of poor people didn't mean they had to have the _same one._

Anyway, he wasn't going to the club, and it wasn't Jimmy out in his yard sweating with muscles and a tattoo and cowboy boots, so the point was moot. He waited for his mother to head off to lunch, checked his appearance in the kitchen mirror, and went back outside. By then it was almost one in the afternoon and Duncan had been at it for four hours. High time for a break.

"I think you better come inside for a drink and something to eat," he announced with all the confidence daddy had insisted it was so important to have in the courtroom. You didn't have to _be _right, you just had to make sure everyone else thought you were.

"I'm fine," Duncan denied, continuing to rip weeds out of a flowerbed near the back of the house. He was down on his hands and knees, which was one thing, and Gord also had a wonderful view of his back stretching into the work of butch, muscled arms. He was about ready to swoon, if that was the sort of thing dignified people did.

"Nonsense," he retorted. "You'll get heat stroke out here all day like this. I can't pay you to work if you're unconscious in a stretcher, can I? You'll come inside and have something to eat." Duncan stopped, putting down a gardening fork, and flexed a rippling wave of muscles as he turned to look right at Gord.

"Are you telling me what to do?" he said in a way that was distinctly threatening. Like if Gord said yes he was going to get his ass kicked and it didn't matter who was paying who. He was still a kid from Blue Skies, a reject or a drop-out with a shaved head and criminal record. Gord sensed the line somewhere behind his heels.

"I'm saying... if you _want _to come inside and have some refreshment," he amended stiffly. Duncan looked right at him, with eyes that were surprisingly clear and intense. Before he'd seemed sort of vacant; roaming but not really focusing, but now it was like a magnifying glass was pouring all the power of the sun into a single stare.

"All right," he conceded like it was his victory. "Sure, I'll eat." He stood up and pulled the now brown-grey shirt from his belt, wiping himself from face to hip, including his arms and back. Like he was mopping it off a floor and not his body. He threw the wet rag down on the ground and brushed off his hands. "Let's go."

Gord had to remind himself his mouth was meant to be closed, and that it was impolite to stare with his jaw hanging open like that, but for a good moment he couldn't help it. That was the second time he'd done it. He clicked his teeth shut and led Duncan into the house, watching his cowboy boots cross the living room carpet and fretting over whether he was going to track mud. It was dry so the carpet seemed to escape, and the clap of heeled shoes on his kitchen floor was a welcome relief. That at least wouldn't stain.

"What can I do you for- I mean, do for you," he corrected, glancing at Duncan and wondering how obvious it was.

"Water's a nice start," Duncan remarked, and Gord carefully made sure he didn't fumble anything as he got a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge and twisted the cap, setting it beside a glass on the counter Duncan was slouching against. "Hell, you even have fancy water here," he remarked, taking the litre-bottle and swigging directly from the neck. Well that was one that wasn't going back in the fridge, Gord noted.

"What can I interest you in?" he introduced, opening up the fridge. "We have some olives, brie, oh here's some prosciutto."

"What?" Duncan practically grunted. "Are you talking about food, or-?"

"_Prosciutto_, it's cured Italian meat," he explained. "The best comes directly from-"

"Fancy ham," Duncan surmised, and strutted up next to Gord by the open refrigerator door. "I can roll with some fancy ham." He reached in and took the packet from where Gord was gesturing, who was almost electrically aware of the half-naked, fit, working boy who was right behind him reaching alongside his arm as if they might almost touch. He was glad of the refrigeration then, because his face was going up like an iron in coals.

He watched as Duncan ripped open and consumed eighty dollars worth of imported Prosciutto, and wondered how he was going to pitch that to his parents. The boy had eaten more than his entire day's wages in a matter of minutes. A lewd part of his mind suggested he get it made up to him some _other _way, but he kept that out of the way for now. He'd tell daddy that mummy had taken it to lunch, and mummy wouldn't mind anyway.

To conclude Duncan polished off half a breadstick and most of a jar of olives, dunking his fingers straight into the pot and pulling them out of the oil to slurp at like one of those terrifying ice-drink things Gord had heard of. He tried not to baulk as he watched Duncan finish, screw the lid back on the olives and then wipe his oily fingers on his jeans. It was watching pure fabric abuse.

"You starin' at something?" Duncan snapped, and Gord realised he'd been trying to erase the stains from his jeans with sheer willpower.

"No, I was just," he fumbled. "Is there... anything else you want?" he offered with an attempt at his usual suavity. The class of charm where he could slide up next to Lola or Jimmy or whoever and ask them if they'd ever wondered what _old money _tasted like. It fell slightly flat, to his disappointment.

Duncan was giving him a hard look from across the kitchen, and for a moment when he stepped out Gord thought he'd transgressed some horrible commoner law and was about to get the snot pounded out of him in his own house. Instead, Duncan took one long stride and stopped, the steel toes of his cowboy boots bouncing up and down as he tapped them on the tiles.

"Maybe I should ask if there's anything _you _want?" he posed with a roguish gait, and Gord's stomach answered by twisting in a knot. Did he _know _somehow? Had he worked it out? The staring, the... well, the staring. It was a tense moment, but he was a Vendome, a class with nerves of steel. His family withstood the pressure of courtrooms against all the odds and didn't break down. He was not going to lose his cool.

"Why?" he murmured smoothly, and folded both his arms behind his back, stretching his shoulders out. He went to the personal trainer with mummy and daddy at weekends, he wasn't ashamed of his abilities. Like running very quickly if the situation went sour. "Is something on offer?"

That was the point at which he was sure Duncan knew what was going on. Perhaps he'd known from the start. As if he'd been sweating and wandering around Gord's kitchen half-naked without reason. It was preposterous. But before the silence got awkward, Duncan cracked a smile, showing crooked teeth with a chip, bared like the fangs of a wolf. As if he was going to pounce and try to tear Gord's throat out with them.

"Nope," he answered bluntly, and now it had morphed to a smirk. "I was just checking." He gave his hands another wipe, then strolled straight past Gord without another word.

"You," he wheezed to himself, not ready to believe that they'd been so close and the townie had just blown him off. Like it was a game. "Wait just a second!" he spluttered, springing out of his pose and going after Duncan as he sauntered across the living room. "What on earth do you think you're-" Without being conscious of what he was doing, he'd reached out and grabbed Duncan by the arm before he got any further. Gord was going to give him a piece of his mind – checking _what_, he would demand, and just whose house did he think he was working in. This was no way to treat an employer, he fumed, and had every precise word of reprimand ready when as fast as a shot Duncan turned, grabbed Gord's outstretched arm by the wrist, and twisted it round until his joints screamed.

"Don't grab at me, rich boy," he threatened as Gord's knees buckled trying to straighten his arm. "Just because you're paying me, don't mean you get to push me around."

"I just wanted to know," Gord hissed through gritted teeth, "what you meant by _checking_." To his mercy, Duncan released the hold, and he stood upright cradling his wrist. He'd forgotten that kids from Blue Skies were tougher than Greasers, tougher than Jocks. They were street kids, basically. They had to be as hard as the life they led.

Then, having just almost twisted his arm inside-out, Duncan swung the other way and gave him another lopsided, gregarious grin.

"As in, finding out if you really _do_ want it rough from the tough kids," he offered sardonically, and Gord's mouth twisted upside-down and back again into the guiltiest grimace to ever look half-way like a pout. "Right now, I figure I'm right," he assumed, and Gord was very extremely aware of the space between them. It wasn't very much.

"You might be," he replied calmly, although it was no more than a bluff for the tornado inside his chest. In a sudden, violent movement Duncan reached out and curved a thick arm behind him, then grabbed a handful of Gord's hair by the scruff. He pulled a little, but it didn't hurt. It was just dominating.

"What does this look like to you?" Duncan posed arrogantly, flicking his eyes up and down Gord's position. It wasn't a question of yes or no any more. It was statement. Gord was waiting, but so was Duncan. He wasn't through with goading him. "Is that it?" he taunted, tugging on the mess he was making of Gord's hair like a handle. "Aren't you going to do anything?"

"Are you going to knock my teeth out?" he asked unassumingly. He wasn't keen on getting any more dental work done thank you very much.

"Not on purpose," Duncan jested, and Gord could see the tendons stand out in his arm, stretched into steel rods all the way from his wrist into his elbow, then through his biceps and into the steel-stack of his shoulder. He was tense too.

"Good," Gord found himself saying with surprising authority, swallowing the anticipation in his mouth as he reached out and closed his fingers around the belt-buckle on Duncan's pants. It was the only grab point available, seeing as his chest was bare. He didn't mind.

He dragged Duncan the rest of the way to him by the crotch, perched his free hand over a shoulder light as a bird, and pressed his clean mouth over a filthy one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 (chapter 3 in tumblr chapters)  
**

Gord Vendome was the first to admit he had what could be called in no uncertain terms a _fetish _for people of lower class. He'd accepted that. There was just no thrill to dating within his own wealth bracket. In ten years time he would be matched with some appropriate girl of breeding, get married and produce heirs to the Vendome family. His parents practically had it marked on the calender. So he was going to have his fun while he was young, and that meant dating anyone he liked from any background he found romantic.

In fact, his father had told him personally that there was nothing wrong with a few 'flings' so long as he didn't produce any little bastards, and as long as they never came to the house. Well, he was breaking one of those rules right now, but it was unlikely that anyone was going to end up pregnant in this exchange, so that was something.

In all honesty, Gord had expected Duncan to be like a copy-cat of Jimmy. He was Jimmy's substitute for this entire misadventure, after all. No doubt if Jimmy had agreed to do the work like Gord had wanted in the first place they would be in a similar position right about now. But it _wasn't _Jimmy, it was someone new. Someone who scared Gord on a more fundamental level, whom he didn't know and couldn't predict. He'd known Jimmy long before they ever started exchanging gifts and the things that came after. He was rough around the edges, of course, and had kicked Derby and all their asses before they were fully accepting of him, but deep down Jimmy was a gentleman and he was only nasty if you did it to him first.

Duncan was different. Jimmy Hopkins had gotten his last chance: he was still at Bullworth. Duncan had lost his. He was a kid from the wrong, _wrong _side of the tracks, who lived in a world so different to Gord's the only thing he knew they bothdid was what they were doing right now. They had nothing to talk about, no way of relating to one another, but they could do this – necking in the living room with the back door open and the smell of summer wafting through the air.

The fist that had been balled in Gord's hair was loosened, and sat around his neck like the collar of a coat, warm and a little clammy. He didn't mind sweat, not the labouring kind. It was a sign of work, the kind he'd never do in his life.

He consumed kisses one after the other, tasting the gourmet food that he'd put in Duncan's mouth, and it was _heaven_. So when Duncan slid a hand onto his collarbone and pushed him back, it was like having heaven snatched away from him. That didn't make him happy.

"Hey," he protested. "Why are you stopping?" he fumbled in trying to carry on, but Duncan had him held away like a parent with a sticky child. "I thought we were having a good time."

"Sure," Duncan answered with a snarling grin, "but I'm not being paid to give you a good time." That sounded worryingly like an excuse to go back outside and keep on teasing... working, whatever.

"Would you like to be?" Gord responded right off the mark. When Duncan scowled he realised he may have taken a wrong step. Now the hands came off him completely, and the stack of masculinity he'd been lusting over stepped back.

"Not even _I'm_ that desperate for your money," he growled. It was an insult, Gord realised. He'd tried to buy him, like an escort.

"I didn't mean it like that," he tried to amend. "I just-" Duncan was trying to walk away. He daren't try and grab him again. "Wait," he called out instead. "Can't we just..." Duncan stopped and pivoted on one heel, crossing his arms over his chest aggressively.

"You want some of this?" he invited, quirking his head to one side. God yes, Gord thought. That was exactly what he wanted. He was sure Duncan read that in his expression, because he bristled like a preening bird. He knew who wanted who more in this situation, and was letting it flatter his ego. "Then _earn_ it."

Now Gord crossed his arms too, one across his chest and the other balanced on his wrist, resting an outstretched forefinger against his temple. What kind of invitation was that, he wondered.

"How do I earn something without money?" he asked, and Duncan gave a derisive snort.

"Same way everyone else has to," he scathed. "With hard work. Fraid' you might have to get your hands dirty," he taunted, and Gord saw what game he was playing. Oh that _was_ cute.

"I can 'work' for you any way I like?" he inquired wryly, tending to a smirk of his own this time.

"Whatever floats your boat," Duncan answered like a challenge. "S'long as it keeps me happy." Happy, he said, but there were plenty of other interchangeable words for that. He thought of Gord as too prim and proper, clearly. That he liked the thrill of being grabbed and put upon by some commoner, but could only take and couldn't give – like most entitled, spoiled children.

Well, Gord had been around with Jimmy Hopkins, and if that wasn't a lesson in hard love nothing was.

"Very well," he announced, brushing fictitious dust from his shirt front. "Sit down," he said, and flicked his eyes at the designer-pattered sofa in the centre of the room. Duncan quietly evaluated his orders, then went over and slumped into the couch. Gord calmly started to unbutton his shirt and slipped it off his shoulders, hanging it preciously over the edge of a chair, then did the same for his shoes, socks and pants.

"This is the worst strip tease I've ever seen," Duncan critiqued, and Gord gave him an exasperated sigh.

"I don't want to crease, stain or otherwise _damage _my things," he explained aloofly. His outfit cost more than Duncan could make in a year, and just being too close to him was probably a bio-hazard. "So just be patient." Duncan snorted, obviously thinking it was hilarious, but when Gord was done and feeling only slightly self-conscious in tight-fit Aquaberry boxers, he politely buttoned his lip. Maybe he approved of what he saw.

Duncan had sprawled in the corner of the couch with his legs thrown apart, a move of ultimate indifference to his surroundings. However, he started grinning like a Cheshire cat as Gord moved in on top of him. One knee between Duncan's legs and a hand across his chest, spanning his fingers over the latticework of tissues that made him up. Last, Gord leaned in and kissed him, taking advantage of the upper position and pressing down with more of his weight.

Though Duncan was scrupulously not revealing anything about what he felt – he was accepting, but no more than that – he responded to the kiss, touching a hand first to Gord's ribcage, then wrapping around his back, winding him in closer until they rested in a more comfortable tangle. The skin on skin felt fantastic, not completely pressed together like bookends, but touching here and there, pectoral to collarbone or hip to rib. Gord kept moving, changing angles, never content to stay exactly in one position for too long. It finally started to take a toll.

"You sure do wriggle around," Duncan panted with a flush creeping up his neck and a more hazy blur to his eyes. It wasn't just tongues that had been rubbing together; he had squirmed closer and pressed a combination of thigh and crotch over the front of Duncan's jeans. Gord grinned in a way that made him feel powerful: he was only just getting started. Without announcement, he slid down and put his hand back over the buckle of Duncan's belt, which had a marijuana leaf embarrassingly embossed over the chrome. It made him roll his eyes, but Gord didn't mind it as he was immediately about to take it off. Perhaps he could lose it and then Duncan wouldn't wear it here again.

The candidacy of his gesture seemed to impress the townie. Or maybe he just wasn't expecting Gord to pull his jeans off with quite so much blasé. Perhaps he thought the prep was going to chicken out – like _that _was going to happen. Gord was made of stronger stuff than that. And he liked this – the sleazy, dirty side of getting off with someone.

It fascinated him that a person with nothing could still have a cock and do the very same things with it as the great Derby Harrington himself. In fact, Duncan was surely _much _better with his, if Derby's narcissism extended to all reaches of life, which Gord was sure it did. It was the great unifier, the leveller. Money didn't buy you love, and it didn't make you good in bed either. Gord could attest to that.

That said, Duncan was without any complaints about the class of service being offered now. Gord had continued stripping him and unceremoniously started work on the semi hiding under distressingly dirty boxers. He liked to slum it, but the dirt was usually meant to be metaphorical. He put it out of his mind as he sucked Duncan hard and then a little extra. Soon he was making betraying noises of enjoying it and being somewhat surprised at Gord's generous gag reflex.

It was cruel irony that the only person he couldn't give a fantastic blowjob to was himself_. _Because he liked doing it, and he'd learned to be _good _at doing it, yet he was the only person who couldn't experience his own ability. He had to settle for getting his thrills in other ways.

Duncan was getting along just fine, fumbling fingers through Gord's hair and gasping in the middle of exhaling when Gord rubbed him just right with his tongue. When the time was right, he pulled out his hidden ace and added a hand below his mouth, employing a signature twist of the wrist that had Duncan groaning with intense, confused pleasure. He came in about a minute, somewhat surprised about it.

"I, uh... wow," he gurgled inarticulately, while Gord pulled back onto his knees and wiped his mouth. Etiquette lessons as a boy had impressed upon him that under no circumstances was it socially acceptable to spit, so no matter how unpleasant the thing you'd put in your mouth was, you would swallow it and smile. Funnily enough that lesson had translated over quite well; Duncan at least seemed pleased. "You're good," he complimented clunkily.

"I know," he answered. "You did _say _you wanted to be kept happy."

"Sure," Duncan replied. "I just wasn't expecting... where did you learn to do it like that?"

"Just admit that you underestimated me," he taunted, chock full of pride. There was a unique pleasure in knowing he'd blown some unknowing commoner's mind.

"Easy," Duncan chided. "You're good," he asserted, "but you're not the best I've had." And Gord's jaw dropped like Duncan had said he hated his outfit.

"I don't believe you," he insisted; Duncan laughed.

"Oh you're just full of it, aren't you, rich boy?" He kicked his boxers off his foot and slid more upright. "Don't take it the wrong way, you're top ten at least." He smirked. "Maybe even top five." Gord wasn't sure what scandalised him more; that Duncan had a list of the best oral sex he'd ever gotten, or that Gord wasn't at the top of it.

However, before he could kick up a fuss about what must surely be inefficient evaluative method, Duncan was on his knees up at Gord's height, and a second later was pushing him down on the sofa.

"Fair is fair," he murmured as he gripped Gord's shoulder with such strength he couldn't have twisted away without putting something out. "You earned it."

He anchored himself between Gord's legs, which flexed up and around his waist as he pressed Gord down against the sofa cushions. His parents hadn't minded when he'd said he wanted to do pilates and flexibility training. They didn't need to know _why_. Then Duncan kissed him without squeamishness, slipping another hand to his underwear to pull him straight, keeping comfortable as he lay underneath Duncan being rubbed and palmed hard. An occasional bite to the lip or neck only made it better, and if Duncan had him pegged as wanting it this way, he didn't mind.

Soon enough they'd pulled apart just to get the last modesty of his underwear out of the way, and with an impolite slobber into his hand Duncan wrapped it around Gord's cock. He _had _water-based lubricants for that upstairs, and he wasn't entirely thrilled with the idea of olive-and-prosciutto flavoured saliva reducing his friction, but when he was being jerked off on the living room sofa by a rough kid from the townies with a Mohawk and tattoos he could overlook it. Far happier to moan and sigh and push his hips up any chance he got.

"You never stop fidgeting," Duncan rasped in Gord's ear, hanging over him with enough space between them to move his hand, but cheek-to-cheek up top. He didn't answer, just made an indifferent moaning noise and carried on. Duncan was pressing his crotch against Gord's backside idly, habitually rolling his weight into it, but it wasn't going to go further than that. The hint was just enough to get him excited; a whole week's work, Duncan had said. There would be _plenty _of time for that.

With a nip on the ear like some kind of signal, Duncan moved back and re-supplied his hand with spit, ready to finish. Gord opened his eyes and watched, taking in the picture as a final stimulus to push him over the edge. It curled up him, releasing with a satisfied moan and a smattering over his torso – _that _was why he took his clothes off to start with. He only needed to learn that lesson at the expense of _one_ Aquaberry sweater.

Of course, he was going to have to get up and wander naked through the house in order to deal with the mess anyway, but it at least didn't involve a washing machine. For now he was content to lie back and sigh, a sleepy grin on his lips.

"Right." A business-like tone clubbed him from his contentment. "I'll get back to work," Duncan's announcement came as an unwelcome sledgehammer to Gord's post-climax haze, and the abandonment of warm skin against his even more so.

"Wh- wait just a... you can't go already," he jabbered, sitting up and glancing down at himself for only a moment. Skin could be cleaned, but the sofas couldn't. Better on him than elsewhere.

"I'm being paid to work," Duncan reminded him, dragging on his boxers and jeans, then picking up a boot from where it'd been discarded. "So I'm gonna work."

"Well I... yes, I suppose so," he murmured with dissatisfaction. He hotfooted it across the living room for a box of tissues, but by the time he'd balled up two into the waste-paper basket Duncan was already back in the garden pushing the wheelbarrow away from him.

Seeing as he'd been abandoned, Gord decided he might as well take a shower. By the time he was out of it mummy had come back. She'd probably been through at least a bottle of champagne, so he didn't imagine she'd notice anything like disturbed sofa cushions or wonder why her son was showering mid-afternoon. Gord stayed in his room most of the afternoon anyway, alternating between the binoculars and being irritated at himself for bothering to look.

He hadn't been snubbed, he convinced himself, Duncan was just hard-working. He didn't want to waste time when he could be making money. Perhaps he was saving up for his next meal, or he had an alcoholic parent to support, or a drug habit. Gord really ought not have expected him to waste valuable working time just for a post-coital buzz.

At about 6pm he was sitting down in the living room with mummy, the two of them half-napping to the backdrop of whatever shopping channel she'd turned onto, when an assertive cough shook Gord from his doze like someone'd put a jolt of electricity through him. Duncan was standing in the doorway, now wearing his shirt again, stained as it was in browns and grey.

"I'm done for the day," he announced. He'd been there since the morning, it was fair, but somehow Gord didn't want to let him go.

"You stayed until nine yesterday," he found himself commenting.

"I started at five yesterday," he answered bluntly. He was tired, Gord could see. He'd been out there for eight hours. He ought to let the fellow go home.

"_Fine_," he sighed, getting up and rifling through a pot of loose change for some fifties. Anything smaller his father had a habit for giving to coffee-shop baristas who flirted back at him. "I'll see you to the door." Duncan stomped through the living room in a slightly surly way, but he stopped half-way noticing Gord's mother.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said politely. She raised her eyes at him through heavy eyelashes and smiled.

"Any time, darling. Come back and play soon," she murmured on mummy-autopilot, and Duncan gave Gord a bemused look. He rolled his eyes and gestured him to follow.

At the door he started on the business of the money. He'd inconveniently only found fifties to hand, and on the agreed rate Duncan was owed eighty. He handed over two bills and let him do the math.

"This is extra," he said suspiciously, though clearly pleased to be holding a hundred bucks in his hand all the same. "Don't you _think _of paying me for-"

"I don't have any change," Gord snapped, defensive for some reason. He'd imagined that by now he could be claiming whatever affection he wanted from Duncan, and here they were quibbling over money. The experience had been exactly what he wanted, but the fallout hadn't. Maybe it was the equivalent of sleeping with the boss.

"Well I haven't got a twenty either," Duncan muttered. He had free money in his hand that he could _obviously _use, and yet he looked like he wanted to punch Gord for trying to pay him like a hooker. Gord would save him the trouble.

"I'll just take it out of your next payment," he announced cruelly, and Duncan grit his teeth behind a scowl, then tightened his lips again, forcing them to be neutral.

"Good," he said with a vindictive growl, like the cough of an engine. "I'll see you tomorrow." This time he didn't wave.


End file.
